Grown Men Asleep

in Broad Daylight

At night, sleep does 

my living for me;

a form of surrender 

that takes no strength.

But I’m restless

and long to be more 

than merely alive.

Sleep is a shadow

advertising itself everywhere.

Faux faces made of airwaves

beckon and lull 

all while

night seeps into day.

Take the conductor on the Q line

who fell asleep at the switch

derailing the 3 train cars

and injuring dozens

including a Chicano nun and 3

small children on their way

to Coney Island.

The papers said the conductor 

had 3 times the recommended dosage

of NyQuil in his system.

Or did something inside him

just want to jump the tracks?

Asleep in our chronic patterns

like constellated stars

too tired to twinkle,

only in the morning

are we certain of our actuality,

as the juxtaposition of lying

horizontally on a bed

is so fresh in the memory

in comparison 

to what it ought to mean 

to be vertical.

I stop in my tracks. 

Am I that anonymous student 

I saw in college coming home 

from the cinema

who in a somnambulist state

was found standing in the Quad

asleep on his feet?

As a full grown man,

being awake is a daily struggle;

consciousness,

my last curriculum.

Exhaustion is everywhere,

a smoggy human freeway.

Detached from our vehicles

(which now drive themselves)

we need only look for signs,

though I feel culpable 

for recognizing this

and useless to affect a remedy.

So I have to ask myself:

What if I can’t see my own 

unconscious manifestations?

Like not being able to smell

my own bad breath.

Don’t let me be blind

to my own wretchedness.

I beg the mirror

to give back my life.

A glass of wine 

each night 

becalms my nerves,

quenching my desire

to be one 

with the moment,

even if I have 

to trick myself

into believing 

there’s nothing 

at stake.

I’m old enough not to care 

about stepping away 

from my ambitions.

I don’t want to be

driven.

I want being

to be enough.

And so

I live

in the fervor of a

blind man’s prayer.

I ask you.

What will happen

if we find 

ourselves disgusted 

by the whole 

human race?

What if our brother

really was our business

all along,

and transcendence 

the only sign

of having lived 

a good life?

Peter Valentyne

May 12th, 2019

From "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"